


Study Hard

by nightmarefever



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Gender-neutral Reader, It's actually v lighthearted, Lots of Komaeda h8ing himself, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other, Pre-Despair, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4392089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmarefever/pseuds/nightmarefever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve sat and studied for a total of two months, four days, twelve hours, and too many repeats of praise at your talent, your hope, your quiet. There’s not going to be openings for dismissals anymore, though. You don’t have the time to count for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Study Hard

**Author's Note:**

> Not much to say other than someone suggested I do a Komaeda/Reader fic and so......Well I did! Vague spoilers but it's set Pre-Despair.

Approximately seven months, twenty-five days, and six hours ago, you sat in this chair, this comfortable new chair, and started your education at Hope’s Peak Academy. The chair had dropped 3 centimeters since you first used it. Only you and eight other students had ever used it, at least this year.   
  
You knew because you’d counted.   
  
You were always counting.   
  
Always memorizing.   
  
Always noticing.  
  
Always never forgetting that each minute,  _each second_ ,  _ **each blink**_  was time going by and time to be logged away and kept stored and you couldn’t stop counting. You  _literally_ couldn’t stop counting the numbers in your mind, the details in your surroundings, every word of gossip and lecture and leisure. They raced through your thoughts even when you slept and even when you tried distracting yourself and

## CLICK

Seven months, twenty-five days, six hours, thirty minutes, two seconds.

You closed a petal on a flower, crude in your notebook in blue ink. Glanced for one and a half seconds at your phone timing. Heard the foreign student telling a joke to another in English. A laugh and chalk cracking on the floor. Another crack of a pencil from the boy in front of you.

Hinata Hajima had broken his pencil eighty-nine times since the first day. He’d borrowed lead thirty-five times, wasted on you when you only wrote in pen, existing just to help. Lead smeared on paper. Lead wasn’t permanent like the ticking moments.

Today, he didn’t ask. For the fifty-fourth time, the sound of clicking spoke to you. It said the boy was prepared today. He had to be –this was the last class, the last minutes.

Bliss was starting through your body. A cold love over the day being over for you – and time passing all captured so elegantly. You thanked the Heavens above for your classmate’s backup today. Today…..today you had the luxury of seeing the moment the hour closed, the cycle beginning anew. Only twenty-four times a day did you get to chance upon it. And with how much of that was spent sleeping, living, busy, just once was enough and this would be that moment.

Corner of the eye showed friends standing, waiting for you. Sure, they chatted among themselves but they’d glance back, patiently riding out the seconds. Six months ago, they’d not hesitate to bother you in nothing but good will. Play catch-up and make plans for the evening. Today, they knew how important each moment was to you.

_Three……Two…..One…._

## CLICK

Bliss had never felt so….well…blissful. You smiled at the ease washing over you. You only needed this one hour and now you had it. Anxiety from waiting, watching, could ease off. If only for another day.

Bells rang. The quiet chatter around blasted over it. The music of school could hum in you always. Reminders of organized time with fewer details to memorize with how little it changed.

You closed your notebook with that final thought. Moving to gently put it in your bag was stopped halfway. A hand was on your shoulder. A certain pressure held it there with unfamiliarity. Its owner was weak, touching you so lightly someone else may have dismissed it. Your friend was distracted. You could tell instantly from the hand and their voice laughing at another’s joke.

It spread mischief in you. They were ticklishly around the third rib cage, closer to stomach than back. This was more than the fifth or their knees. The weight you felt told enough. They’d be powerless to stop your attack.

Turning your head just enough to not stir, you gazed at them.

The light smile faded.

Things weren’t familiar for a reason. Your friend’s hands playfully shoved another, nowhere near yours. Not til you turned your body did you see who really was touching you.

A pale hand drew back as you did. A pale face looking very worried, very fast. But the carefree glisten in it would be right back.

Komaeda Nagito seemed to find little interest in allowing even the itchings of clouds into his mind.

“Did I interrupt you?” His hands clasped over his mouth. “I did! Oh, how predictably me–”

You shook your head.

Words weren’t a natural reaction for you. What space free from memory was better saved for actions. Actions spoke louder than words after all. Sometimes quieter for others. But never Komaeda. He was hardwired to act on every breathe, every motion.

And there it was – acknowledgement. A laugh of relief. “Also predictably me!” Hands left his mouth to hold his chin up.

Komaeda…. SHSL Luck. Six months to his next birthday, which will be one day before school starts. Class rank 98 (one of the few students who would even tell you when you asked.) Twelve centimeters taller, unknown weight less and you knew he weighed less by how easily he swayed when you fell into him back the day you measured him to you. When he joked about you putting him in his place, a word-for-word “garbage hole you could  _never_ sink so easily into as mistakes like I!”

He’d laid beneath you in that empty classroom for what felt like a minute, a minute you stayed above him listening to aimless blabbering from a boy you expected to at least jokingly be rude to you.

You sometimes scolded yourself for losing track of that minute.

He still blabbers, though less frequently. “I hate to hold up your minutes with someone as  **pathetic** as me but–”

The boy swallowed his words back as another hand landed on his desk. He snapped up. You followed.

Hinata, in his utterly intimidating glory, looked back intensely. His mere presence gave the aura of obedience, a sit-down-and-do-better attitude. But when deliberate? You shivered.

Komaeda shivered. “I mean…Can I…ask you something, just a quick question?” Komaeda looked to see if that was approving.

Where words weren’t second nature to you, they were to him. Words of disgust, trash, self-loathing  _destruction._ More love was bestowed towards others, to praise and idolize. Something he didn’t lose after seven months, but he was making progress.

The brunette smiled. The intimidation physically rolled off the two of you with that expression.

“You heard the man!” joked Hinata. A smile returned to Komaeda’s face as his hair was ruffled. “Answer his question, Memory Lemory–HEY THAT’S MY–”

The three of you seemed to flinch in unison as someone fell  **hard**. A group of girls by the door were hanging from it, knocked to it save for two. A girl rubbing a bloody nose smashed by her reunion with her old friend, the floor. And another, already racing out the door, shouting passionately out in a tone that told you it was Akane.

“You’re in charge.” The boy snapped his fingers at you before racing over to help up the knocked over nurse. You could see the brief thank you exchanged. Brief, as Hinata was leaving after Akane the moment he was done. 

He didn’t shout, you took notice of that. Seemed important. 

You looked away only when Komaeda chuckled. 

“That’s our Hope…” Green eyes stared wistfully at the open door, distracted by no doubt mesmerizing talent. 

You cleared your throat.

He drew right back. “Right! Are you free tonight? Unsurprisingly, I’m lost about the weekend assignment and–”

You raised an eyebrow. 

“Er. S-Surprisingly, I’m….Unsurprisingly, I’m not…..lost? Are you. Not free?" 

"Cut it.”

“…..Cut unsurprisingly or cut asking you?" 

Silence fell, four seconds of it. Seconds where Komaeda looked increasingly fidgety and anxious, confused but no doubt torn between bothering your quiet and ending the questioning in his head. His nails tapped twice on his desk before you just answered on your own.

"You can come over  **six** minutes prior or  **six** minutes after 5:30. Or between. Or whenever.” You smiled softly. “Don’t be so tense. Stop by when you’re ready." 

"Oh! Great!" 

The cheerfulness returned as you stood, slinging your bag over your head. Shoes, only yours, tapped the floor, empty besides you, Komaeda, and Souda, who was sleeping in back row behind his textbook.

The luckster stood after you, beaming. He patted down his uniform before giving you the cheesiest thumbs up today or this week (you’d seen it four times from him, now five.) 

"It’s a date!”

Your smile was all you gave. All, but gesturing for him to lean closer. 

“The six minutes thing–”

“Is real, I know,” he interrupted. “I’ll try to come four minutes prior instead of six. If that’s alright.”

Your smile widened. 

Four minutes! You tried not to giggle. 

Four, divisible by two, multiplying into eight. Four, once more than three times the charm, three more than one the loneliest number. Four with its three lines and five points so beautifully placed. 

Witnessing an hour’s click……planning around fours……you’d never lived a greater day!

With the way Komaeda’s own smile pulled an almost smug upturn, you knew  _he_ knew how ecstatic the suggestion made you. 

“Is that a promise?” you blurted out. Heat of excitement was filling your veins. _FOUR! Four minutes!!_

He chuckled in his usual raspy tone, leaning away. “Of course! I’d never lie to such beautiful hope!” A slipping backpack was adjusted. “See you at….. _hm_ …5:26, then.”

You nodded as he left. Watching til he exited, taking with him the excitement and pulsating glee he had planted in the first place. Left behind was a strange sensation. One making your face feel hot. 

Holding your cheeks confirmed that, only making it worse against your palms.

Beautiful hope…

You never could tell if Komaeda was complimenting your SHSL memory or, well, you. 

——————————————

It had no reason to stick. 

What he had said. 

Just another cascade of flattery, nothing more. Nothing you considered could be true. Hell, he’d said far prettier things before. 

_The convenience store has seven bottles of your favorite soda left, three in a flavor you like, two in a flavor Komaeda might love. Two each means fairness and thirst quenched equally. It means four bottles._

That it may have existed outside of his idolizations. That it was meant for you in a more…..friendly way. 

_You reach home sixteen minutes and twenty-two seconds before 5:26. Carrying four bottles, a loaf of bread, two bags of chips, a packet of gummy worms, eggs, and a carton of milk. A note on the fridge says you’re home alone until Sunday due to a business meeting. You count the time under your breathe as you put groceries away._

Komaeda speaks from places of fondness. To everyone. Not just you, the memory bank who can help with homework not because you know what you’re doing but because you just….know. He’ll ask a question and you’ll know the answer because the problem resembles one from page 346 of the textbook.

_Ten minutes before, the remote dies and you instead pop in a movie to watch if Komaeda finishes his assignment early. It’s the third one on the top row, thirtieth page of the fourth DVD case you’ve organized six times. The movie lasts 92 minutes and 7 seconds, not including 7 minutes exactly of previews and time spent pressing play on the menu._

Then he’ll ask about your memory. What you love to remember and count. The details you’re fond of. The smallest one you will remember from right that moment with his feet on the coffee table, slouched down but arching his back to stretch til he’s satisfied, shirt riding up his stomach for six seconds mouth yawning for four. 

_Four seconds. Four bottles. Four cases. Four minutes, nearly four minutes prior –_

‘Beautiful hope’ had four syllables.

At 5:26, not a second later or sooner, you open the front door. Jitters you stupidly got going in your gut act up when you approach it. Consuming you as you gaze out. And see Komaeda turn around, grinning wildly at you. 

Four seconds later you let him in. “I have quite a lot I hope that won’t be a problem!” He slips his shoes off, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie. The same Hope’s Peak Academy Student hoodie he usually wears.  _Only_  wears. Does he wear anything else outside of school? Is there anything under that, like a matching shirt? 

You shake your head, not thinking it wise to dare start down that path. Komaeda takes it as his cue to take out his work and move to the couch. 

You sit down. 

You get to work. 

Your phone times the session but you do not.

Choosing to not remind yourself of each second, each minute, is harsh but you pull through, tasking yourself to only help the near failing student seeking your aide. The boy knows so much, though. His low-grades never seem to match with his answers, even if he does take time to figure them out. You take none, but, again, your memory does all the work for you. You don’t actually solve anything. 

He does, resulting in a group share. Memory can be wrong, on occasion, even a hyperactive one like your own. Hardwork straightens that out. 

You guess he’d ace his tests if it weren’t for his luck. And his speed.

You finish first and. Just watch. 

Komaeda erases something. Then writes the exact same answer down, smiling softly as if confirming it correct himself. Pencil taps his lips. Thin and pulled up, strangely pink in a way you hadn’t really noticed yet, but it was likely just the light. 

_Light yet dark shade, two shades darker than his skin, his skin three shades lighter than yours. He has four problems left – three problems left working at a speed of one per fifteen to thirty seconds–_

At two problems, you’re interrupted. The couch sinks under Komaeda as he leans into it, rolling his slipping sleeves up thin arms. Thin enough the hoodie’s consuming him. Even jeans, clearly meant to be skinny, trapping his body, seem too loose. Yet still too constricting. 

“You’re sweating,” you say rather than think. Remembering what the temperature was  draws a blank and that draws anger at yourself for being so stupid to not check it like always. You laugh the anger off. Drawing up to the seat by him. “You’re cooking in that, Komaeda.”

Komaeda just shrugs, bringing his legs up on the couch. “I’m comfortable,” he says with the usual smile.

He’s always so difficult. For utterly no reason at all, he’s got to be difficult. The strange relief he gets from taking zero care of himself ends at the front door, however. And you need to distract your mind that’s trying to calculate how many centimeters of skin you can see  _not to mention how much that adds up compared to nonvisible skin, then how much clothing is there and_

_“_ You’re dying, you dork.”

Your hands move on their own. They snatch the bottom of the academy hoodie, lifting it with lighthearted commentary – ”My insurance wouldn’t cover a death” – to stir your strange gut feelings again. There’s too much making you nervous today, isn’t there? 

Not that….you’re nervous.

You’re not nervous.

This isn’t making you nervous. Lifting his hoodie, your palms starting to touch the shirt underneath, then that being replaced with  _soft skin_. Soft skin and you can feel he’s sweating under his clothes for the brief moment you feel him because that’s all it is. Briefly ( _two–n-no three seconds. three seconds?)_ before Komaeda jerks your hands away.

You stare at his fingers on your wrists. Feel a new sensation. 

Shaking. So lightly only you could notice because every new detail must be processed and saved. 

Komaeda shakes faintly. And when you look at him, he’s still fixated on his fingers on your wrists, as you were. He looks uncomfortable, shocked, unhappy–

You don’t need the space in your crowded mind to know why. “I’m–I’m sorry.” Even to you, it sounds too emotionless, like every other thing you do or say. 

“That’s…fine.” The boy looks up. Frown goes up into the same smile, the same slightly pink lips curving up to reassure you. Your hands return to you, his own smoothing back down his top. “I just don’t think….such beautiful hope should be touching me. You can’t–I’ll just get my filth on you!” And he laughs like it’s a good joke. You! Touching him! Why ever would you do that? What a silly joke!

Seven months and three days and twenty-seven hours and seventeen minutes and a second wasn’t enough to totally break the self-loathing smiling with the faintest lights of white teeth shining beneath. And you never could alone. It was a group effort from the whole class but the class isn’t here in your living room with you and Komaeda. 

It’s just you and his smile. 

Your eyebrows tighten. What a stupid smile. “Well….What if I want to?” you try not to stutter. You’re more sure of yourself than that, at least if you lie to yourself to bring it up. 

“What?” The smile’s now a frown.

“What if I want to touch you?” 

Komaeda physically hesitates, breathing quickening  _for all of half a second, no it’s been a full second and he’s being quiet for two more now._  A hand brushes through his hair. “Why would you  _possibly_  want to do that?” He….sounds honestly confused. The notion doesn’t even seem realistic to him. 

Your eyes roll at his tone. It’s a waste of breathe to speak.

_Actions speak louder than words._

But you give a final word, so he has something to hear first. So he won’t be as surprised once it hits his closed ears. “Because.”

“Huh–!” Your palms are under swiftly. Flat on his stomach that clenches still beneath you. 

Komaeda looks like he’s reaching for your wrists again, then closes them.  _Tight into fists in the air._ Eyes on your face, your hands, then back to your face again. “I don’t deserve this–You’ll have to shower for weeks–!” He bites back his own words as your hands pull higher. The drifting eyes stay on their motions, hoodie and undershirt pulling up to reveal more and more deathly pale skin, deathly thin frame or is it just the way he’s hardly breathing? 

You lean closer, like you’re sharing a secret again and honestly aren’t you? You watch his face until he has the nerve to look back at you. Once his attention’s fully on you, only you and your words and actions, your mouth curves just enough up. 

“Better?” No, your mind yells. It screams it because your face is hot too now, hands catching Komaeda’s trembles and heat with your hands on his chest, curled beneath his clothing. 

The tight fists drop. You aren’t sure what it means, yes or no. But you understand as he leans forward, dragging his hands down his back to tug the hoodie over his head, rustling that wild mess of hair somehow more. Your own hands lower, resting on his hips until the damned object is one with the floor. 

He looks cooler now, just his favorite white shirt bustled halfway up his ribcage. 

But he hasn’t answered you yet. You want a verbal answer, him to tell you if you’ve gone too far and you can find a new study buddy. A new friend. One that isn’t Komaeda. The boy closing his eyes and breathing.  _For five seconds, five seconds of silence and a single long breathe, your heart’s beating at a rate of_

He returns with a smile. It’s always a smile. What a shocker. “Yes, but what about you?” 

Finger, thumb, hand, his hand touches yours, then your lower arm. You can see his Adam’s apple throb once. 

He feels your short sleeve in his hand. Second throb. 

_Three shades lighter, twelve centimeters above, half a centimeter into your sleeve, the timing has been running for three minutes longer than it should. Two shades darker, same shade as yours._

Komaeda braces himself against the armrest. Tugging you closer at the sleeve, he surprises you without resistance when you meet his lips. A wait for him to compare this to you kissing a garbage can is passed, surprising you more and more. Almost scaring. Are you too much hope to fight back against? Is he going to let you do whatever you want because he doesn’t feel he can stop you? Does he

Your lips break…and return. Soft pushing on your face. Hardly kisses but slowly growing realer as the boy tests his limits. 

A lip bite feels accidental but pulls your hands to grab his chest, his shirt clenched. Your teeth clench on his ear once you’re free. A shivering squeak leaves Komaeda, his face burying into your neck as you explore further. Kissing from ear. Down his neck. Blowing on his collarbone. Sucking on his collarbone. 

Komaeda mumbles, another sound you can catch and only you. “I-Is this what hope feels like?” 

Nervous giggles draw into his shoulder. He’s still fixated on  _that?_  Or is he joking, lightening the mood before you both suffocate from the heavy atmosphere? 

You don’t care. You won’t ask. 

Your hands trace down his stomach. He clenches it again, face going deeper into your neck. The shaky breaths feel scorching on your skin each exhale he makes. His reactions are all you focus on, the date bustling through your mind.

_Two hands on your chest; two hands, ten fingers undoing his belt that’s on the fifth hole of the leather, chain on his jeans jingles thrice, zero words._

Button pops beneath your fingertips, your own breathing finally skipping. You want to count how fast your heart is racing. You want to count how fast you fall when Komaeda pulls you forwards, catching you before you smack into him as his back hits the couch. 

You’re too still to bother. Soaking in his details is still all you could care for. They kept changing and surprising you and following no pattern and you….love it. You love this unpredictability. 

His face is very concerned, eyebrows bundled up, mouth gently opening and closing. Misty green eyes stare up intensely. You stare back. 

Hands go to get his zipper. His hands, leaving yours on his shoulders, abandoned. They could be put to better use. They are in the action of getting off your own jeans, sitting up to do so and giving Komaeda room to lift his hips and slide his off. “W-What are you doing?”

There’s no response planned but even if there had been, he doesn’t wait. 

“My…My hands can’t—t-they can’t touch–I told you–” His words melt against your lips. He halts long enough to let you draw him from self-destruction.

Your jeans fall off your ankles, kicked to the floor. A chuckle on his ear; “Don’t need hands to fuck me.” 

Komaeda chokes on his next words. Their revival is again wrecked just after; he’s not hidden deep in his baggy boxers. Near enough to the surface a tug brings him right through the plaid’s hardly buttoned flap. Hips jerk beneath you. 

Tender kisses make the boy relax in your touch, your face, your hand just curving up a thick length. Slow motions that bring you both back down. Komaeda resurfaces fast, though. 

Your thumb pads into moisture, a weeping tip that jerks harshly when you push. Komaeda’s teeth brace his lip. 

You giggle nervously. And repeat. 

And repeat. Traveling down an inciting shaft. Crawling back up with nails just barely touching. Rubbing fingers around the most sensitive spot that made Komaeda’s knees twitch and hit your back. 

Eventually he can’t bite anymore. Tossing his head back makes you expect a scream, a cry of bliss – you get neither. Only light sounds, gentle sounds. Komaeda moans softly, mostly quietly, the sound just not wanting or just not there. 

It’s cute. He sounds like he’s sighing, sighs that became groans as he empties them into your lips. 

And you can see his smile finally back. It presses against your mouth, glowing when he arches just a bit into your fist and moans. You see it closer and closer as his hands grab your hair and keep you locked to him. 

Noses bumping, your hair on his forehead, you reach back. Tugging down your underwear – finally – without any complaints or halts. Maybe you’re too eager but you hover above him, ready to take what you can  _now._

Actually doing it, taking him, releases the bliss cry you were awaiting, a doubled effort this time. Komaeda drops his into the couch cushion. Yours rolls out in a giggle, unavoidable or desired to be. 

You’ve hardly started, hardly full, but the little you feel pulsates through your entire body, your entire  _being._  The numbers, the data, the words, the details, all stop processing for this moment where you feel like falling down right then. 

“Y-You’re–I….I’m really,” Komaeda stutters, swallowing harshly. “I’m really in you.” 

The bluntness makes you laugh and makes you kiss him again. Makes you finally fall and stifle your sounds on his lips, his sounds on yours those angelic sounds of his. 

“You really…really are, big boy.”

“B-Big boy.”

“Well,” you reply with a raise of your hip, “you are.” The fall is so filling, so intense you count it. You count it out loud even.

“Two,” Komaeda repeats. His hips raise to meet yours, making a gasp rattling through you. “Three.”

Four repeats.

Five and onwards become a blur, attempts at the numbers melting into wordless noises and faces buried into necks. There they keep quiet. Sucking skin. Kissing skin. Or leaning away. Komaeda mostly leans away, arching and thrusting with every flinch he can shake out. 

White hair spreads on the couch every time he tilts his head. Sharp warmth pools every time you two meet at an increasingly desperate pace. For once, you both are, not just the unlucky boy. Desperation quickens you. Makes Komaeda’s cock ram – 

_it’s fast but what’s the time at? how many minutes? how many seconds? measure him after, length and width. how does this compare is this constant will this be the same level of excitement next time? will there be a next time? how many times can he go? how far can he be pushed?_

The couch gently rocks, you can  _just_  notice the shake, the sound. It makes you whine. Nails scrap down your spine, trying to grab on to something. 

_how long does this last? feels like twenty minutes feels like an entire year? nothing’s consistent how far can you go what’s his limit whats yours? what’s the likelihood of there being a second try? what’s the likelihood he’s going to ask for a new desk or a new classroom?_

## CLICK

Your phone announces an hour mark. You have no frame of reference to when the last one was. Time doesn’t matter though. Thinking about it gives you a headache. You bought four sodas, two for you, two for him. You’ll drink that and you’ll feel better and 

_seven months twenty-five days six hours_

It yells in your ringing ears and it doesn’t help it’s wrong it’s off it’s not up-to-date and it’s irrelevant data. What’s relevant is the sharp jerks rams are hard to fall on, hard to survive without utterly coming undone and, well, you are. 

_**seven months twenty-five days six hours** _

Komaeda gives a sharp jerk. The noise he gets out sounds like he’s crying and he’s crying your name. Your name and mutters about memory, mutters about hope, mutters about things you can’t hear over 

##  _seven months twenty-five days six hours_

Your teeth grasp the side of Komaeda’s throat, tight and you can taste metal scorching your tongue. His knees smack your back, arms tight around your body, not moving. 

You’re not moving. But you both know you need to. All that comes out is trembles over your spine as emptiness becomes your new friend.

Nothing is what you’re used to but…right now…it’s foreign. 

Your legs are shaking, body shaking, heart racing. Mouth red but Komaeda got lucky. The bite? It’s massive, you see the indents of your teeth carved into his throat. But the blood? It’s dried up. It leaves a sore mark behind and with the way Komaeda kisses your cheek, he doesn’t mind. 

His face is flustered, sweaty, but smiley. Eyes closed gently and open slowly when you speak. 

“Can you stay over?”

Komaeda closes his eyes. Nods.

“Good.” Your arms fold over his gently rising chest. “Maybe then I can get lucky twice.”

Komaeda covers his mouth so his giggling isn’t so loud. 

Your head rests on your arms, hearing his heart beating, his lungs breathing, his voice box laughing its strings out because he’s in the afterhaze? the aftermath? afterglow? Your head hurts too much to remember but he’s there and it’s making him giggly and nervous but not. Anxious, self-loathing, self-harming. 

It’s cute.

It only took seven months, three days, and twenty-eight hours to find.


End file.
